Page 52 of Immortal Longings
“The left one is more fitting for a grand occasion,” August replies easily. King Kasa nods his approval and echoes the same sentiment to the advisorwaiting with a notepad in his hands. August almost frowns, but he holds it back, as he has done for years upon years. He cannot falter when he is so close. He can almost imagine it: the fear in King Kasa’s eyes when he grabs his father’s silk collar and hauls him away, the glee in the servants’ eyes when they set down their bowls of fruit and step aside, when they push the king toward his execution and let his blood run in rivulets down his body, along the marble floor, out the balcony. Let it color all of San; let it gather so thickly on the streets that it overpowers the stink in the city.
August swallows hard, his throat burning. But it cannot be him. How would that end? The councilmembers calling for answers. A power vacuum in San-Er, both palaces fallen and controlled by incompetent nobility. There are no other heirs left. Royal blood has dried up on both sides of the waterway after Princess Calla disqualified herself by committing parricide. He must not rush. He must not slip up for fleeting gratification. There’s no pleasure to be had in stepping on King Kasa’s neck and spitting in his eye, in monologues or great big theatrics. King Kasa will not see it as justice finally catching up to him; he does not understand that he is anathema to this land.
He will have no regret for his reign. He will only think it a wrongful coup. And when he dies, despite how good it would feel for August to stand over him and see the terror set into Kasa’s eyes, August knows there will be none. Calla can make the cut. He’ll stay out of range to avoid the blood spray. That’s how he will save this damned kingdom.
“Your Majesty,” August says, “would you like me to check on the food deliveries?”
They’ll be coming in from the rural provinces today. Quotas to be filled in villages that can barely feed themselves. Rations taken from those who need it more.
“Excellent idea,” King Kasa says. “Ask about the fish, would you? We want one for every banquet attendant.”
“Of course. I’ll be right back.”
August turns on his heel, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. He wipes at his mouth when he exits, like he can wipe the grime off. When he rules, there’ll be no such silly matters. When he rules, he’ll do good—spread his resources, spread his education to every corner it is needed.
August finds his way to one of the kitchens. The palace is unlike the rest of the city. Its tables are clean; its floors are always mopped. The machines rumble loudly to pull noodles and scale fish, yet the smell is free of damp flour stink and putrid sea salt. Although the atmosphere is just as busy—and August is nearly bowled over when he opens the door, having to quickly assure a cook that it’s all right, that there’s no need for prostrating on the floor in apology—the people here are different. No one is worried about going as fast as they can to make their next meal.
“Your Highness,” Galipei greets when August appears in front of him. He offers a spoonful of the bowl of stew in his hands. “Would you like some?”
August waves it away. “What’s the situation at the hospital?”
“It’s always work with you, no fun.” Galipei tips his head back, eyeing their surroundings. In the time that he takes for observation, three kitchen hands walk by—one with a basket full of vegetables, imported from the provinces; one with a giant fish, brought in from the bays of San-Er; the last with a sack of rice.
Galipei continues speaking without fear of being overheard: “I’m working on it. There are a lot of moving parts if we’re trying to make it look natural.”
“Don’t fret too much about that,” August says. “Who’s to prosecute us if it looks like foul play? Maybe the hospital itself made the decision out of mercy. Or because she’s been there for too long—bed space is precious.”
“Hmm.” Galipei spoons another dollop of stew, then puts it in his mouth.He’s not dressed for work today, which means he’s skirting tasks from Leida. August will pretend not to notice, as long ashistasks are fulfilled.
“So, what does she have on you?” Galipei asks.
August narrowly stops himself from balking. Instead, he reaches over and slaps the stew out of Galipei’s hands. The plastic bowl is almost empty already anyway. August kicks it beneath one of the tables and hauls Galipei off by the wrist toward the doors.
“Not here,” August hisses under his breath. “Have you lost your mind?”
“How am I supposed to protect you from threats when you omit information, Your Highness?” Galipei replies evenly. He doesn’t resist being dragged, though he could easily exert his superior strength and halt their progress.
The doors give way, leading them into the quieter corridor. A golden light fixture dangles above them, crystals twinkling when it senses the disturbance in the air.
August continues onward until they come up to a window. They’re on a lower floor, so the view is half stone, half gray-hazed light, the roof of the apartment complex beside the palace marking a perfect red line in the middle. He pushes the window open. A warm breeze blows in.
“You might as well tell me,” Galipei says when August remains quiet for a long moment. “You have sent me on many strange tasks, but none as insane as killing your half sister who has been in a coma for seven years.”
August sets his elbows on the windowsill, his face inclined toward the light. His shoulders are tense, held together by a contradiction of steel bones and brittle tendons. No matter how strong he makes himself, it will not take much to pick him apart entirely.
“Perhaps I am less sane than you know,” he says.
Galipei frowns. “Do you doubt whether I know you well enough? You aremine to guard, August. I know you, under any circumstance. Tell me what’s going on.”
August considers refusing. Stubbornly, he wants to hold on to this secret, but Galipei looks at him now with an expression bordering on defiance, and he cannot allow this. In his mind’s eye, he sees the two of them spending their late nights in the palace turrets, going over the cities’ problems and peering down at San-Er as if they are the only people who remain awake. Very little sound makes its way up to the turrets when they are so far above San. The cities become a picture of stillness, separate from the work that August and Galipei do, separate from the world they create together.
There’s not much that August has all for himself. But he has Galipei, who was made for him, not for the kingdom, and if Galipei is drawing away, then he must be reeled back.
Prince August turns to his bodyguard levelly.
“I fear,” he says, “that Anton will find some way to wake her.” August pauses, considering his next words very carefully. “I don’t know how, or if it is even possible. But if he manages it before we seize power, then we are in trouble.”
Galipei leans his shoulder against the wall. He folds his arms. “Otta was on your side before she fell sick.”
